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I love old moons. There is something humanized about them; they are dulled a little, and rich in color. One can stare all night at an old moon.
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Songs are usually unfit for whistling - indeed, whistling (except to the person doing it) is unbearable.
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The breeze brought us a faint sound, as of a distant rat, a huge and mystic rat, gnawing, maybe, at the horizon!
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November at its best - with a sort of delightful menace in the air.
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A sarcastic expression, on a beast, is far more sinister than rage.
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What a strange joy it was to talk, to fish gleefully into the past and fling its fragments about us, with the unfailing aroma of pleasantness that pasts always seem to possess!
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Timeliness is an enemy to art.
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How different a loved and familiar spot appears, when viewed with the eye of probable guests.